


Night and Day

by RileyC



Series: Getting To Know You, Getting To Know All About You [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Batman: The Animated Series, Man of Steel (2013), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman: The Animated Series, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Canon, Case Fic, Dorks in Love, Harvey Bullock Is Politically Incorrect, Identity Porn, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Slow Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-10-18 14:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: A killer has claimed four victims in Gotham. Clark believes there are more in Metropolis. He's on his way to Gotham to see what he can learn about the killer--and if he happens to run into Bruce Wayne and/or Batman in the process, well that could be interesting too...





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

“Kent? Kent!” Perry White scanned the bullpen, not even surprised anymore when he couldn’t spot Clark Kent. Quarter to nine an Kent was already pissing him off.

 

He’d had an instinct about Kent. Wouldn’t have taken him on as a stringer otherwise given his overall lack of experience. He’d watched Kent prove him right and earn his place at the _Planet_. God knew no one could fault his work ethic, his hustle. Another time, another world that looked kinder on idealism--or at least didn’t mock and deride it as a gauche faux pas--and Kent’s brand of social justice crusade might have taken him a long way.

 

Perry had done his share of mocking. He told himself that was because Kent needed to be grounded in cold, hard reality. He told himself it was a kindness. If he didn’t look at himself too long and too hard in a mirror Perry could even believe that was true.

 

He’d been that green once. He’d wanted to change the world. And he’d succumbed to cynicism in the end. It pissed him off that Kent sailed on, impervious to that kind of soul rot. It pissed him off more that Kent would look at him with disappointment, like he’d expected a whole lot more of Perry White.

 

Pissed off at himself now, Perry picked up a notebook Kent had left out on his desk, flipped through a few pages. “Luthor, Luthor, Batman, Morgan Edge, Bruce Wayne… How many bugs does that boy have up his butt?” He tossed the notebook on the desk, kicked a balled up yellow Post-It that must have missed the waste basket. It rolled across the floor, coming to a stop by a pair of feet in black-and-white Chuck Taylor high-tops.

 

“This yours?” The owner of the Chuck Taylors stooped to pick up the Post-It, hand it over to Perry.

 

Perry took it, uncrumpled it, read what Kent had scribbled down there. He shook his head, scrunched up the note again and tossed it in the trash. “He damn well better not ask to see the signal.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Perry waved it away. He focused in on the newcomer, registered details--tall, slim but not scrawny, smiling like he didn’t know the world was going to hell--zeroed in on the camera bag slung over one lean shoulder. “You Olsen?”

 

“James Olsen--yes, sir.” He held out a hand.

 

Perry scowled, sighed, shook the proffered hand. Good grip, he noted; something else the kid had in common with Kent. “Come on,” he gestured toward his office. “They call you Jimmy?” he asked as they headed that way.

 

“Been known to.” Olsen hitched his bag up higher on his shoulder.

 

“You have any quirks I should about?”

 

“Quirks?”

 

“Fixations. An inclination to go off on your own and disappear without any warning. Crusade for social justice.”

 

Olsen looked like he was giving that some serious consideration. “Seems to me like crusading for social justice is the whole point of running a paper, sir.”

 

Perry sat down at his desk, put his face in his hands for a second. “Goddammit…”

 

Where were they coming from? Maybe the government was putting something in the water, school lunches? Even as he pursued that train of thought, Perry dismissed it. Last thing __any__  government wanted was to raise up a generation of idealistic troublemakers who believed there really should be liberty and justice and a fair deal for all. He’d believed that once, fought for it--envied them their convictions, truth be told. He might be--might be--past the days when he’d go tilt at some windmills himself but he could feel something creak to life in him that felt an awful like hope. Lord knew the odds were against them, the deck was stacked in favor of the corrupt and rapacious, and any sortie against them was doomed to failure. What the hell, though--might as well go down swinging.

 

“Mr. White?”

 

Perry looked up, waved him to a chair. “You’re going to feel right at home here, Olsen.”

 

The younger man grinned, settled in the chair. “Looking forward to it, Chief.”

 

~*~

“You’re going to see the signal, right?” Lois asked. Her voice over the phone was just slightly breathless, as though she was jogging or walking very fast.

 

“It’s just a klieg light, with a piece of tin or something over it.” Clark lounged against the deck railing, watching the Metropolis skyline as the ferry began its chug across the bay to Gotham. “What are you doing?”

 

“Trying to keep up with Carter Hall. He is not a man brimming over with patience for lesser mortals.” She was at the Metropolis Natural History Museum, then, where Carter Hall was unveiling an exhibition of his latest find in Egypt: the tomb of Nephrim-Ka. Lois sounded like she was juggling something now, probably her bag and a cup of coffee. “And it is not just a klieg light with a piece of tin, Clark. It’s an icon. You wouldn’t go to Disneyland and not see Mickey Mouse, would you?”

 

Clark smiled, wondering what The Batman would make of that comparison. “I thought you weren’t a fan.”

 

“I am a prize-winning reporter who knows what elements make for a good story and the bat signal is one of those. Whose idea was it, his or Commissioner Gordon’s?”

 

“I’ll try and find out.”

 

“You do that. And I meant what I said before, Clark, be careful. If he finds out you’re on his turf--”

 

“He’ll what? Bounce batarangs off my chest?” That was a question he would like to pursue: did Batman name all his gadgets and doodads, or was it something that had grown out of the media coverage.

 

“Very funny,” Lois grumbled at him. “Just be careful.”

 

“Lois,” solemn now, sensitive to her concerns, Clark said, “he can’t hurt me. He won’t even know I’m there.” Even if he did, why would he care about Clark Kent being in Gotham City?

 

“You’re going to be talking to Gotham City detectives, maybe even his BFF, Commissioner Gordon--he’ll know.”

 

He thought she might be casting aspersions on Commissioner Gordon. On the other hand, The Bat did operate with blatant impunity. Getting to the bottom of that was one of his many objectives. Locating Detective Harvey Bullock to compare notes was his number one priority. If there was time for anything else… Well, he’d cross the bridge when he got to it. “I will take every precaution, Lo. Don’t worry.”

 

“I’ll worry if I damn well feel like it. He dresses up like a giant bat. Who knows what goes on in a mind like that?”

 

“That’s what I want to find out.” The wind gusted, making his overcoat flap out behind him. He pushed at his glasses and studied the horizon, the dark, cumulonimbus clouds forming up. Back home in Kansas that could be the only warning you ever got that a twister was on its way, ready to touch down and tear a swath of destruction through whatever stood in its way. Images flashes through his mind, old grief and anger at his helplessness threatening to rise up. He took a moment, pushed that memory to the back of his mind. “The truth gets distorted, Lois,” he fumbled for the threads of conversation, “those distortions become facts for some people. You know that.”

 

He heard her sigh, could picture the exasperated affection in her eyes. “He’s not like you, Clark.”

 

“He might not have been that different once.”

 

“Clark… I know you want to find someone else out there, with the same vision and goals. I don’t think you’ll find that in Gotham.”

 

They had been round and around this, neither ever satisfied with the conclusions. That he could share it with her, get her insights, made all the difference in the world, though. “I have to look.”

 

“I know you do.” He sensed she wanted to say more, to warn him--again--to not get his hopes up. Another voice interrupted, rough and cranky and riddled with impatience-- “Lane! You want to quit your yapping and get over here?”

 

“Carter Hall?”

 

“Yep.” Lois let out a deep breath, laced with her own brand of aggravation. “He really missed his calling in not opening a charm school.”

 

Clark laughed, couldn’t resist teasing her. “I don’t know, Lo. Sounds like it could be true love.”

 

“You are a sick man, Smallville. A sick, sick man.”

 

Still grinning, Clark said, “Guess you better go.”

 

“Looks like. Be careful, Clark, I mean it. Stay out of trouble.”

 

“I will do my best.” He wouldn’t look for it anyway. That would have to do. “You too, Lo. Talk to you soon. And watch out for the weather. Looks like a nasty storm in brewing.”

 

“You think maybe it’s an omen?”

 

“I think…” He blew out a frustrated breath; the same thought had flitted through his mind for an instant, after all. “I think it’s the front Sunny Daye on WLEX said was moving through this morning.” They said their goodbyes then and he shifted his messenger bag higher on his shoulder as he scanned the stormy skies. The raucous cries of gulls as they swooped through the air provided the kind of perfect soundtrack only Nature could.

 

It was early October, autumn crisply arrived. He would have to get back to Smallville soon, rake up the leaves in the yard and get the place ready for winter. He missed that, the physical labor of working on the farm. He might not feel the effort of it, feel the ache of sore muscles, but the satisfaction of getting all those chores done was always a warm buzz. There would be a respite in it, too, a chance to recharge in ways that no amount of exposure to sunlight could ever achieve.

 

He yearned for that simplicity a lot these days. To shore up a fence, or rake up a pile of leaves with no greater concern than that the dog might dive smack into the middle of them. And then at the end of the day, everything raked up again for a proper bonfire, there was the scrape of a match and the crackle of flames, smoke scenting the air as the leaves and twigs burned.

 

He had told Lois about this ritual on one of their not-exactly-a-date dates. She had given him a dubious look and said, “Riiiight. And then the Children of the Corn come out?”

 

For all the playful teasing, he thought she felt a pang of envy for the way he’d grown up; how she imagined it must have been. He felt the same when she spoke of her sister, an ally in the upheaval of an army brat’s life. Even when she admitted things between her and Lucy were complicated these days, loaded with landmines every step of the way, Clark always detected a wistful nostalgia in her for days that looked simpler now. So he didn’t disillusion her about growing up in Smallville. It wasn’t an false image, after all, just a bit incomplete and fuzzy around the edges.

 

The _Spindrift_  pitched in the choppy water, jolting him back to the here and now, and Clark grabbed hold of the railing to steady himself. He wouldn’t make much of an impression on Gotham City, after all, if he showed up wet and bedraggled, like something the cat had dragged in.

 

Not that he cared about impressing Gotham. Nothing could be further from his mind.

 

Even as that denial took form, images crowded around it. Images that were tall, dark, and handsome, with eyes that took his measure and a smirk that dismissed him as a rube.

 

_Bruce Wayne…_

__

He could tell himself he hadn’t become obsessed with the man, his Gatsby, that he was only intrigued by the enigma of him and not turning into a stalker. He didn’t have a wall plastered with pictures of the man, after all. Whatever points he gave himself for that had to be subtracted with the acknowledgment that he had taken to picking up any glossy magazine with a featured piece on him.

 

Last month’s _GQ_  had been especially good. The black-and-white photographs had conveyed a sense of mystery, yes, but what came through even stronger was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that dared anyone to solve that mystery. Clark had liked one in particular, where the photographer had captured the moment before the smirk, when Bruce looked at the camera as if daring the photographer to go ahead, try and make him smile.

 

An image like that should have conveyed that Bruce Wayne was an asshole. It probably did to a lot of people. Clark had a feeling that was the idea, and that piqued his curiosity even more.

 

Why did a generous philanthropist--and Bruce Wayne was that, on an astonishing level--work so hard to keep the rest of the world at bay? Clark wondered about that almost as much as he did about what made Batman tick.

 

Feeling self-conscious, as though his thoughts were being broadcast, he stepped back from the railing and cast a look around the deck. No one was paying him any attention, of course. Absorbed in their own lives, why would anyone take note of his escalating man crush on Bruce Wayne?

 

His gaze lingered on two men seated on a bench, so captivated by each other it was almost painful to watch. He tried to look away but instead found himself taking mental snapshots of them. Of their clasped hands, light glinting off the gold of their rings. Of the way the redheaded one touched the face of the darker man, brushed unruly curls out of his face. Of how they leaned towards each other and kissed, unencumbered by shame, far too caught up in each other to care; confident they didn’t have to give a damn.

 

One of them glanced over, a spark of challenge in his eyes. Clark tore his gaze away, felt heat flush through him and burn his cheeks. Embarrassed to be caught staring, to be caught yearning.

 

So much easier if that yearning was for Lois. He wanted it to be. When he closed his eyes and let an image come into his mind, though, it wasn’t her face that appeared but someone very different, with an aggravating smirk he half-wanted to punch, and half-wanted to kiss.

 

He blew out a sigh and watched the gulls as they swooped through the sky, and for a moment wondered if coming to Gotham was such a great idea after all.

 

~*~

 

The promise of rain was fulfilled as the _Spindrift_ docked. Not the torrential downpour promised by the cracks of lightning, just a cold and steady drizzle to welcome Clark to Gotham.

 

He didn’t read too much into it. Terrible things happened on the brightest, sunniest days after all.

 

It had been a bright, beautiful morning three days when the body of Juliet Chandler had been discovered, shot to death, on the roof of the Rhapsody Club. Juliet, thirty-two, had been a waitress at the ritzy downtown nightspot, and by all accounts had been popular with customers and staff. “Oh my God,” Sally Cooper, another waitress, had said, mascara streaking down her face, “everyone loved Jules. She was the best. How could this happen?”

 

That’s what Clark wanted to find out. That, more than Batman, was he had come to Gotham. He wanted to talk to Harvey Bullock, lead detective on a string of murders committed by the Lonelyhearts Killer. There had been four murders in Gotham to date. Clark believed there had been two more in Metropolis.

 

Metropolis P.D. detectives Maggie Sawyer and Dan Turnpin didn’t share his conviction. Their focus was zeroed in on Bruno Mannheim, reputed fixer for media tycoon Morgan Edge. Clark was interested in Edge for his own reasons. Rumor had it Edge was in negotiations to buy the _Planet_. That morsel was all he needed to start digging and discover why Sawyer and Turnpin had him in their sights.

 

It hadn’t taken long to find out how Juliet Chandler was connected. “Jules didn’t date much,” Sally Cooper had confided. “Never had much luck in love, and her such a pretty girl.” Sally had sniffed, dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Clark had given her. “Well, she did have something going with the boss for awhile but nothing came of it. Oh!” Sally had clamped a hand over her mouth, a look of mingled shock and fear in her face. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

 

Detective Sawyer had horned in at that point. “What aren’t you supposed to talk about, Ms. Cooper?” she’d asked, giving Clark a cool look. “Anytime you want to hit the road, Kent.”

 

He’d taken the hint. He didn’t need to right there to hear everything that was said, after all. Not that there was much more to hear. Sally Cooper remained tight-lipped, refusing to divulge anything further about her friend’s private life. While Clark admired Sally’s loyalty, he suspected a thread of self-preservation was woven through it. That she feared reprisal if it got out she’d talked.

 

Sawyer and Turpin, conferring, had drawn the same conclusions and didn’t press Sally any further right then. They didn’t drop any names Clark could overhear, either, but more digging had disclosed that Morgan Edge owned the Rhapsody Club. He couldn’t find a whisper of gossip that linked Edge to Juliet, but that might only mean the relationship had kept ultra hush-hush.

 

Easy enough to reconstruct what Sawyer and Turpin were thinking. While seeing Morgan Edge, Juliet had discovered something about his illegal activities. Maybe she tried to blackmail him. Maybe she had simply been seen as a liability. Whatever the case, Bruno Mannheim had been sent to permanently silence her.

 

The theory dovetailed perfectly with the first victim, Kevin Todd.

 

Kevin, a forty-two-year-old divorced father of two, had been a private eye of dubious moral character. He had been found in his office, shot through the heart, forehead stamped with a Cupid’s heart-and-arrow. Just like Juliet Chandler. Just like the victims in Gotham.

 

“Bruno’s developing a sense of humor, sick son of a bitch,” Dan Turpin had muttered when Clark pointed it out. “Or maybe he reads the paper and thought he’d fuck with us. I don’t know and I don’t care.”

 

For detectives Turpin and Sawyer, all that signified in their tunnel vision was that Kevin Todd had been working a case for a business rival of Morgan Edge. Edge found out, and once more Bruno Mannheim was dispatched to take care of everything.

 

It was plausible. It was tidy. There was even a connection to Juliet Chandler to cinch it for the detectives: she was one of the people Kevin Todd had spoken with in connection to his investigation.

 

It fit. It worked. But Clark didn’t buy it. There was just as much evidence to sustain his contention, right down to how Juliet and Kevin had both used an online dating service, just like the victims in Gotham.

 

“Lots of people use those sites, Kent,” Maggie Sawyer had told him. “ _I’ve_ used them.”

 

Turpin had been more interested in ribbing her about that than pursuing contradictory leads, and Clark had given every evidence that he was following orders--from the detectives, from Perry White--to drop it and mind his own business. Since the only thing that would convince Sawyer and Turpin took elsewhere for this killer was proof, Clark had made up his mind to find that evidence.

 

He had no reason to think Harvey Bullock would give him the time of day, either, but he had to pursue this before the Lonelyhearts Killer claimed another victim.

 

~*~

“So the Batman’s involved in the investigation?”

 

Harvey Bullock snorted. “Pointy-eared freak. Thinks he’s goddamn Sherlock Holmes,” he grumbled and took another swig of beer. Fluttering his hands he continued in an affected voice, “‘Oh, I say, a clue, guvnor!’”

 

“He’s British?”

 

“Fucker’s a goddamn Martian for all I know.”

 

Clark didn’t write that down. He wasn’t writing most of this down. He could have eaten it up with a spoon, though.

 

He had heard of someone being likened to an unmade bed before. Harvey Bullock was the first person he’d met who truly fit that description. For all that he sensed there was a sharp, observant mind at work. He wasn’t convinced Bullock deliberately cultivated a crude and slovenly appearance as a means of disarming people, suspects in particular, but he did likely make use of it. Clark understood camouflage.

 

He had run Bullock to ground in a greasy spoon diner near Gotham police headquarters and approached him with a claim that he was doing a series of articles on comparative urban crime fighting, Metropolis v Gotham, with the Lonelyhearts Killer as the centerpiece. One quick call to Commissioner Gordon, or Perry, and it could have blown up in face. Bullock made no pretense that he bought one word of the hogwash Clark was selling but he expressed some interest in what Clark had to say about the Metropolis murders, so at least his foot was in the door.

 

“I know Turpin,” Bullock said, chomping down on a burger. “You eating that pickle?”

 

Clark gestured for him to help himself. He couldn’t actually get ptomaine but after a couple of bites of his own burger he had been reluctant to consume the rest. “I believe he’s a top notch detective.”

 

“Yeah.” Bullock gave the pickle a thoughtful gaze that didn’t really seem warranted. “You know what they say about Sawyer?”

 

“That she’s a skilled and dedicated investigator?”

 

Bullock rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That.” He ate the pickle, wiped his mouth. “They’re both good. Got a stick up their butts about good old Gotham City is all.”

 

“That seems to be common, actually.”

 

“Yeah?” Bullock gave him an interested look. “You get the ‘Forget it, Kent, it’s Gotham,’ thing a lot over there?”

 

He nodded. “It comes up, yes.”

 

Bullock waved that off too. “Wouldn’t put much stock in it. Me, I’ll take Gotham over Metropolis any day. Always get the feeling I’m going to get ticketed for scratching myself over there.” He shrugged, inclined to be philosophical. “Different strokes.”

 

Done with his burger, the pickle, and both orders of fries, Bullock picked up the menu, flipped to the back. “You want dessert?”

 

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

 

“Don’t know what you’re missing. Wanda June makes one mean banana cream pie.”

 

Clark patted his stomach. “Watching my weight.”

 

Bullock stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” He put the menu down crossed his arms on the table. “You want my take? Turpin and Sawyer are right. Metropolis has a copycat. Whether it’s this Bruno Mannhein character or not…” He leaned back, spread his hands, shrugged. “We figured there’d be copycats soon as the press let it out of the bag about the Cupid’s heart stamp. Which is why we don’t like reporters going around thinking they’re Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys.”

 

Clark got the hint and resolved not to take offense, even though Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys had been among his role models growing up. “Yet you’re talking to me.”

 

Bullock shrugged again, snagged his hat from the empty chair and stuck it on his head. “Off the record. And you might’ve had an idea worth thinking about.”

 

So that’s the way the wind blew. Clark supposed he should have seen that coming. “You won’t confirm if that’s the case, though?”

 

Bullock made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Clark. “Got it in one, son.”

 

Clark’s laugh was little more than a hiccup but still enough to catch Bullock’s attention. “Something funny?”

 

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

 

“Must be something. You find me humorous?”

 

There could have a threat in the words but Clark didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure he could really explain it, though. “Someone else called me that recently--son. It sounded different.”

 

Bullock nodded with a sage look. “Condescending, putting you in your place?”

 

“Like that, yes.”

 

“Who was it? Your boss?”

 

“Bruce Wayne, actually.”

 

“Richie Rich?” Bullock nodded, understanding. “Yeah, sounds like that asshole.”

 

“I take it you’re not a member of his fan club, either.”

 

Bullock snorted. “Yeah, that’s a big fat no.” He shrugged again, philosophical once more. “We don’t exactly move in the same circles. Jim Gordon’s known him since he was a kid, thinks he’s not a complete waste of space.”

 

Clark nodded, getting to his feet as Harvey Bullock did. He debated pursuing that, aware it pertained to no official business whatsoever. Since Bullock was already onto him, where was the harm? “Commissioner Gordon was the first officer on the scene that night, wasn’t he? When the Waynes were murdered?”

 

Bullock shrugged back into his ratty raincoat, nodded, a faraway look in his eyes now as if he watched the past flicker before him. “Yeah, yeah he was. Never talks about it much.”

 

Clark thought he could imagine. Maybe. “It must have been brutal.”

 

“Wasn’t pretty. But, nah,” Bullock waved that away--waved the check away too as Wanda June brought it over, “it was the kid that got to him, got to everybody, standing there and watching while it all went down.” He shrugged again, rolled the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Everybody figured he’d turn out pretty fucked up after that, and I’m not saying Richie Rich isn’t, but it coulda been worse. You got that, right?” This was addressed to the check Wanda June had handed Clark.

 

Well, this wasn’t _exactly_ like getting mugged for his lunch money, Clark supposed. “I got it,” he said and dug out his wallet.

 

“Yeah, Gotham was a different place after that,” Bullock said as they stepped outside. He turned his collar up against a chill breeze. “Any wonder we’d wind up with some costumed freak dressed up like a bat? That all the nutcases would come out of the woodwork?”

 

Clark sensed this might be a rhetorical question. His curiosity was engaged, though. “Did he create them--the Joker, Riddler, the others?” he asked as he fell into step beside Bullock.

 

“Chicken or the egg, you mean?” Bullock’s broad shoulders lifted again. “He didn’t make them psycho killers, if that’s what you mean. They got there all on their own. He might’ve given them the idea to dress up and go that extra mile, though.”

 

They walked on, headed for Gotham City Police Headquarters. The rain had stopped but the sun continued to be shy about showing itself. Clark missed it.

 

Long before he had learned the truth about himself he could remember always feeling drawn to the sun. “Bad as that old cat,” his father would say, smile warm and indulgent as he discovered both of them stretched out in the sun, soaking up rays. Clark didn’t know what the cat, Princess Leia, had gotten out of basking in the sun and could only explain that for him it felt like the warmth, the energy, zinged right through his body, and that it felt like some kind of craving.

 

Half-joking, his father had said, “Maybe where you come from folks power up on the sun like we do coffee.” Clark wished Jonathan Kent could have known how close he’d been to the truth.

 

“Hey! Kent, you with me?” Stopped on the corner across from police headquarters, Harvey Bullock smacked him on the shoulder. “Whoa…” He shook his hand, pulled a face.

 

“Sorry.” Clark pushed at his glasses. “What were you saying?”

 

“I was asking,” Bullock gave his hand another shake, “if you’d like to see something. What do you do, pull tractors for a hobby?”

 

Clark ducked his head to hide a smile. “See what?”

 

Bullock pointed up, to the roof of the building. “That,” he said, indicating the signal.

 

“Is it allowed?”

 

“We don’t have Girl Scout field trips,” Bullock flashed his badge, started across the busy four-lane street, heedless of the honking horns and coarse shouts, “but I got pull. Yeah, fuck you too!” he shouted back at the civilians.

 

Welcome to Gotham, Clark thought, and followed.

 

~*~

“So you just turn it on and he shows up?”

 

Bullock snorted. “It’s not that Pavlonian, but yeah, pretty much.”

 

Clark took his time looking the signal over. He hadn’t expected anything one way or another and had almost suspected it might be an urban myth. The reality of it __was__  unremarkable, looked at one way. Just a klieg light with a bat symbol across it, exactly as he’d told Lois. Yet he couldn’t deny there was a certain buzz of excitement in seeing it. He could imagine the thrill that might pass through someone, of dread or excitement, when they looked up and saw that light pierce the darkness.

 

He looked around the rooftop, took in the satellite dishes, the water tank, searching out any spot that might accommodate Gotham’s Caped Crusader. He would have liked to scan for hidden passageways but tabled that for the moment. “How does he get up here?”

 

“Fuck if I know. Clicks his heels.” Hands shoved in his coat pockets, Bullock looked out across the city. “Couple of times I had to fire it up because Jim was indisposed. First clue I had he was here was this voice coming out of nowhere, sounds like it needs a Ricola real bad, asking, ‘Where’s Gordon?’” Bullock had dropped his voice to a lower register, roughened it in imitation. No trace of a fake, effete British accent now. “Probably thinks he’s being scary.”

 

Bullock didn’t indicate if it had been and Clark chose not to pursue. “Batman and Commissioner Gordon have worked together a long time, haven’t they?”

 

Bullock scoffed at that notion and said, “Not what I’d call it.” He moved closer to the edge of the roof, looked out over the city washed fresh in the rain. “Know how The Batman first made contact?” His hands were in his pockets but there were air quotes in his voice. “He broke into Jim’s office one night, put a gun to Jim’s head, and told him to get on board or else.” Bullock blew out a breath, grumbled to himself a moment, and elaborated. “Yeah, okay, it was actually a stapler, and to hear Jim tell it, it was actually a request to join forces to clean up big, bad Gotham. Do not ask me why Jim fell for it.”

 

Clark thought he knew. He doubted Harvey Bullock was really oblivious. “Maybe he thought it was worth a shot.”

 

Bullock scoffed at this, too, but Clark sensed the bluster was half-hearted. “Yeah, maybe. He brought Jim a present, just like a goddamn cat.” He rapped his knuckles against the light. “First time this was fired up, Pointy Ears’d had left one of our crime bosses, Carmine Falcone, strapped across it.” He chuckled at the memory. “Now that, my man, was a sight to behold, I will give you that. Don’t think Carmine was ever the same after that.”

 

“I imagine that would change a man.”

 

Bullock snorted, let out another deep breath, shoulders slumping as if under the weight of memories. “Yeah, I’m not saying it was all bad. Got some freaks put away, got some order restored. We coulda done it without him,” Bullock sounded like he wanted this clearly understood. “Caused us as many headaches as the psychos, what with him operating outside the law. But yeah,” Bullock appeared to be looking into the past again, “it wasn’t all bad.”

 

“What changed?” Clark pitched his voice soft, not wanting to jar Bullock out of his reminiscent mood.

 

“It never let up. Get the Riddler put away, here comes Two Face. Stick him in Arkham and up pops the Joker. And that’s not even getting to Falcone and the others. And if it’s none of the usual suspects it’s some psycho like this Lonelyhearts Killer.” Right then Harvey Bullock sounded like he had about reached the end of the road as well.

 

“Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys,” he went on, shook his head some more, “they always made crime solving sound like a game. Get the suspects together, finger the killer, tie everything up in a pretty bow, and go on like nothing ever happened. It’s never like that,” he said with feeling. He might have forgotten Clark was there.

 

Clark risked reminding him. “Why keep doing it then?”

 

“Somebody’s gotta.” Bullock shook himself like a bear coming out of hibernation. “You print any of that I’ll break your kneecaps.”

 

Clark smiled, nodded. “Understood.”

 

“What in hell is going on?”

 

Caught up in Bullock’s monologue, Clark hadn’t been listening for anyone’s approach and was as startled as Bullock by the new voice. The wild thought shot through his mind that Batman might have dropped in on them, but no, the speaker was an older man over by the roof door.

 

“Jim. Hey.”

 

“Hey yourself, Harvey.” Commissioner James Gordon stepped away from the door. “So, this a party or something?” He didn’t sound angry, just curious, and like a man who had known Harvey Bullock for a long time.

 

“Just showing Mr. Kent here around.” Bullock waved a hand in Clark’s direction. “He’s doing a--” He stopped, looked at Clark. “What’d you say it was? Comparative…?”

 

“Comparative Urban Crime Fighting Techniques: Metropolis v Gotham,” Clark supplied.

 

“Yeah,” Bullock snapped his fingers, “that.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Gordon said, infusing volumes of disbelief into that response. “That right?” he asked Clark.

 

“Something in that line,” Clark said, not quite able to able to meet Gordon’s eyes. Was that the Commissioner’s stock in trade when it came to interrogating suspects? Simply give them that steady, I-am-not-buying-your-bullshit look, until they broke down and confessed to everything including that candy bar they shoplifted one time? It was a good technique. “Actually, sir, I wanted Detective Bullock’s insights on the Lonelyhearts murders.”

 

“That so?”

 

Clark didn’t scuff his toe against the gritty roof--but he wanted to. “It’s just, I believe the killer has committed two murders over in Metropolis as well.”

 

Gordon looked at Bullock then. “Anything in that, Harvey?”

 

Bullock tilted his hat back, replied with a noncommittal shrug. “Could be. I’m thinking copycat’s more likely.”

 

“Okay.” Gordon swung his attention back to Clark, eyes steely blue behind the glasses. “You with Metropolis police?”

 

“Ah, no, sir. _The Daily Planet_ , actually.”

 

Gordon sighed, nodded like he’d known that all along. “Figured it was something like that.” He gave Clark another long look, taking his measure. He didn’t telegraph his conclusions. “Harvey, you got work to do?”

 

“Sure do, Jim,” Bullock said. And when Gordon gave him a significant look, “So I’ll get to that. See ya around, Kent,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

 

James Gordon gave Clark another long look. “They don’t have enough crime in Metropolis to keep you busy?”

 

Feeling a bit mutinous, Clark said, “It’s like I told Detective Bullock: I believe two murders in Metropolis are connected to the Lonelyhearts murders.”

 

Gordon considered him some more, seemed to weigh other matters like the rumble of thunder overhead, and made a decision. “Come on, Kent. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me why you’re so goddamn right and trained detectives have it wrong.”

 

That didn’t entirely bode well, Clark thought. Still, it was another step forward. That was the only way you got anywhere.

 

~*~

Halfway expecting to be tossed out in the street, if not actually run out of town on a rail, Clark was inclined to take it for an encouraging sign when instead he wound up in Gordon’s office. He was even invited to take a seat while the Commissioner brewed up the coffee himself using a Mr. Coffee that looked like it had seen a lot of service.

 

“Not what you’d call fancy but gets the job done,” Gordon said as the coffee started to fill up the pot.

 

That would be a good way to describe the Commissioner’s office. It was a comfortable room lacking ostentation, where the aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the air. Even the awards, and photographs with dignitaries had an aura of modesty. Clark was interested to note that Bruce Wayne was featured in a couple of the photographs. A young woman with flame-colored hair and lively blue eyes turned up in more, on her own or with Gordon; one showed her with a handsome, dark haired young man in a police uniform. “My daughter, Babs--Barbara,” Gordon told him, affection turning pensive as his gaze lingered on the photo of his daughter and the young man. “Her fiancé,” he explained when he caught Clark watching him.

 

“You don’t approve?”

 

Gordon waved it away. “He’s a good kid. The best, actually. There’s…history.” He poured out two mugs, splashed some creamer in them, handed one to Clark. “Babs won’t stop buying them,” he said to explain the Batman logo, an approximation of the signal Clark supposed, that decorated the mugs.

 

“So,” Gordon settled into his desk chair, put his own mug down, “what is it you think the cops have missed?”

 

It was a challenge, an understandable one. Clark expected that. It was a hearing, though, and a chance to make his case one more time. “It’s not that anyone’s missed a clue, Commissioner,” he began. “More that Metropolis P.D. is so fixated on pursuing one path that they’re not looking anywhere else.”

 

Gordon nodded, still in reasonable mode. “It happens. Go on,” he invited, “lay it out for me, Mr. Kent.”

 

Worth a shot, he decided, gathering his thoughts, but dampening down his optimism. It might save a life; that was all that mattered. “I found proof the Metropolis victims, Juliet Chandler and Kevin Todd, had used the same dating site as the Gotham City victims…”

 

~*~

The coffee had grown cold, and a light spatter of rain had started up again by the time Clark finished up. He sat back, awaiting the verdict. In a way it didn’t matter. He would pursue the case on his own. It would be better all around if the police were on the same track, though.

 

“Harvey think you were wasting his time?”

 

Clark’s shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. “He indicated that, yes.”

 

“Hmm. Well,” Gordon stretched in his chair, glanced at the wall clock--quarter to two, “that is what it looks like, on the face of it.”

 

Clark tried not to be disappointed. His hopes had never soared that high for an official endorsement, after all. Even so… “If it’s the same killer, though, and he operates in both cities, that’s important. That could be a way to find him.”

 

Gordon gave him another thoughtful, considering look. “It could be,” he allowed. “It could be a wild goose chase that wastes manpower and resources, too. Why does it matter to you, Mr. Kent?”

 

“I don’t want anyone else to die.”

 

Gordon nodded, still searching his face. “And that’s it? A reporter might win a Pulitzer for breaking a story like this.”

 

“I… Maybe.” Clark shook his head. “It’s not about bylines, sir. It’s about justice.”

 

Gordon sat back, shook his head, a look of thoughtful surprise on his face. “There’s not a lot of that in this world, Mr. Kent.”

 

“So we just give up? I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

 

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression, Mr. Kent.” Gordon’s resonant voice was rich with wry amusement. “Hell, maybe time’s are changing. Maybe it’s coming around right again,” he said, gaze fixed on the mug he was holding, the symbol emblazoned there. “You watch a god fly through the sky, you start thinking a lot of things are possible.”

 

Clark stirred, uncomfortable. “Superman’s not a god.”

 

Gordon shrugged. “Near as this world’s seen for a couple thousand years.”

 

“What’s Batman?”

 

“Not a god--not a demon, either.” There was no hesitation in Gordon’s voice. “A dark knight.” He shook his head, smile rueful, loaded with memories. “I called him that once. Never was sure how he took it.”

 

Clark had wondered about the relationship between Gordon and Batman. Lois’s BFF comment aside, he had expected to learn it was an impersonal, stone cold professional arrangement. That Gordon turned a blind eye to any abuses because it was expedient. He hadn’t been prepared to pick up on threads of affection. “You haven’t given up on him,” Clark said, marveling at it. “You still believe in him.”

 

“One of us has to, until he believes in himself again.”

 

“Can he find his way back?”

 

“God, I hope so,” Gordon said with more feeling than he’d meant to show, looking embarrassed by it.

 

Time to wrap this up, Clark sensed. If he hadn’t achieved everything he’d wanted to, he had no shortage of matters to think about now. And there was a flicker of hope where the murders were concerned. More than he’d had starting out.

 

“Listen,” Gordon stopped him at the door, “there’s somebody you should talk to, if you want to understand Batman.”

 

“All right,” Clark said, waiting.

 

Gordon scribbled something on the back of a business card, handed it over. “His name’s Arnold Wesker. He’s a success story, a real one. And it was because of Batman.”

 

“He was a criminal?”

 

“One of the worst, called him The Ventriloquist.” Gordon smiled at what was surely a dubious look on Clark’s face. “Yeah, I know, but take my word on it. Look him up. You’ll be surprised.”

 

“All right, thank you, Commissioner.” How dangerous could a ventriloquist be? he wondered--and wondered if this was one of those times Perry White would tell him, _“Forget it, Kent, it’s Gotham.”_

__

~*~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark chats with Arnold Wesker; Bruce is a troll...

*******

 

“Life is just the wackiest thing. Don’t you find that’s true, Mr. Kent?”

 

“I suppose it has its moments.”

 

“It sure does.” Arnold Wesker was gangly, sported what could best be described as mad scientist hair, and rocked a red-and-white argyle sweater vest. He had the appearance of someone far more likely to ask if you’d sign a petition to save the bees, than that of a one-time criminal mastermind. He continued as he pushed a mail cart along on the eleventh floor of Wayne Tower.  “You just have to roll with it. That’s what I’ve learned. Try and fight it and you go and lose all your marbles. I guess I’d know!” Wesker accented this with a merry laugh that appeared to draw inspiration from Clark’s look of uncertain consternation.

 

“It’s okay, I’m just joshing you, Mr. Kent. I never used to laugh. Didn’t know how. Can you imagine that?” Wesker shook his head, as though flabbergasted at this realization. “Couldn’t hardly say boo to anyone, not as me. Now look where I am.” He waved a hand to indicate the bustling third floor of Wayne Enterprises. “I meet people all day long and just have the best time.”

 

There had been a moment when Clark had considered that medication played a role in Wesker’s enjoyment of his new life, but he as quickly swatted the idea away. It wasn’t that therapy and/or meds had created this persona, but that those things had helped Wesker find it within himself, had helped him to experience and express it. That was how Wesker explained it anyway and Clark wasn’t going to dispute it.

 

Half an hour at the library, scrolling through microfiche, had given him the cold, hard facts on Wesker. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

 

Not that long ago, Arnold Wesker, known as the Ventriloquist, had headed up one of the most successful and brutal crime gangs to ever hit Gotham. Or rather, Wesker had been the power behind the throne, the puppet master in the truest sense, using a wooden dummy called Scarface as his surrogate. It was Scarface that  issued orders and commanded fear and respect, while Arnold Wesker submerged so thoroughly even he believed the dummy was real. “You won’t believe it, but every word’s true,” Commissioner Gordon had told him as Clark was leaving, with the suggestion to go do some research.

 

Maybe it stood to reason that one of Gotham’s, one of Batman’s strangest criminal foes should also turn out to be the brightest example of success in rehabilitation?

 

“Can you talk about Batman?” he asked, pitching his voice as neutral as possible.

 

He needn’t have been concerned. Wesker’s face lit up at the name. “I sure can. I owe this all to him, you know. Oh, I know what some folk say about him. I won’t say there’s not some truth there. All I can say is he’s the first person who ever tried to help me, who ever gave me a choice.”

 

Wesker stopped to drop off some mail, chat a bit, and then pushed his now-empty cart toward the bank of elevators. “Nobody ever asked if I’d like to be different, if I’d like to get better. Can you imagine?” He shook his head at this as if marveling at the self-absorbed obtuseness of others. “Well, people get so caught up in their own troubles, I guess it doesn’t always cross their minds to check up on anybody else. And then there I was, with Batman of all people wanting to help. Don’t think that didn’t knock me for a loop. Pretty sure I’d tried to kill him a few times, after all.” Wesker shook his head again at the strange ways of the world.

 

Clark helped him maneuver the cart into the elevator. “It must have been frightening.”

 

“Thank you. Oh, it was, it was. I was as scared of losing Scarface as I was _of_ Scarface for the longest time. Pretty wacky, right, when all along I _was_ Scarface?” Wesker shook his head again. “Even when I’d finally got a hang of that there was still a long road ahead. If I wasn’t the Ventriloquist, and I wasn’t Scarface, who was I? Who was Arnold Wesker? Well, that’s still a work in progress,” he said with a philosophical air to match Harvey Bullock’s. “Get a little further along every day.”

 

“Did you have any further contact with Batman?” Clark found it hard to believe Batman would have followed up on Wesker’s progress. Wesker’s next words blew that assumption out of the water.

 

“I sure did. He comes around, checks I’m okay. Every time I’ve started to fall back into my old ways, he’s caught me and put me back on track. I hate to think where I’d be without him and Mr. Wayne.”

 

“Mr. Wayne? Bruce Wayne?”

 

“The Big Boss Man,” Wesker confirmed on another laugh. “Do you know him?”

 

“We’ve met.”

 

This knowledge appeared to please Wesker tremendously. “Isn’t he the best? Sure not what I ever expected. He helped me find a nice place to live, and found me this job. Stops by to visit now and then. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we just watch _The Gray Ghost_.”

 

Boggled. There was no other word for it. Clark sorted through an assortment of words to describe how he felt at this precise moment but couldn’t come up with anything more perfect.

 

“You…watch _The Gray Ghost_ with Bruce Wayne?”

 

“Sure do. I think it’s something happy he remembers from when he was a boy. Well,” for the first time Wesker’s bright outlook dimmed, “you know about the tragedy?”

 

“His parents?” Clark nodded. “Yes, I know something about it..”

 

Wesker gave his head a mournful shake as the elevator came to a stop. “Terrible thing for anyone to have to see. No one could have blamed him if he’d locked himself in his mansion and never come out again. Instead, what’s he go and do but knock himself out to make this city a better place for everyone, so nobody else ever has to go through what he did.”

 

Wesker pushed his cart out into the busy mail room while Clark stared after him, struck by the idea that a light bulb had just gone off. Or that it should have. He couldn’t explain it beyond that sense of having bumped into something of vital import only to have it veer off before it could be identified. Well, if it was important, it would come back to him.

 

He had a lot to think about, that was for certain. While he was no closer to connecting the Metropolis and Gotham murders, he did feel he was a step closer to understanding Bruce Wayne--and Batman.

Proof, if he needed it, that preconceived ideas were never wise. The picture he had built up in his mind of the Bat vigilante hadn’t allowed for philanthropy. Hadn’t allowed for things like the exasperated affection of a James Gordon, or the grudging, backhanded respect of a Harvey Bullock. Let alone the matter of a youthful sidekick named Robin. Would he have to erase the whole thing, start all over? It sure looked like it.

And what of Bruce Wayne? He thought about that as he thanked Arnold Wesker for his time and took his leave of Wayne Tower. The man he’d met at Lex Luthor’s gala had not struck him as someone likely to spend time with Arnold Wesker, watching _The Gray Ghost._ Funny how it occurred to him now that Bruce might prefer that to attending some extravagant soiree packed with people he didn’t know. Would Bruce have even been there that night if not for whatever industrial espionage he’d been conducting against Luthor? And was it fair to draw conclusions from one awkward meeting?

 

Pity he couldn’t find out.

 

As he paused on the sidewalk outside and gazed up at the building in all its art nouveau/gothic splendor, silhouetted against a darkening sky, a few scenarios flitted through his mind like pixilated butterflies. Scenarios where they bumped into each other, where they got off on the right foot this time, and something clicked between them. He could almost hear the music swell.

 

He pulled a face at the nonsensical meandering of his mind and shifted his messenger bag on his shoulder as thunder rumbled from those ominous clouds overhead. He scanned the vicinity for a likely refuge, and was just ducking into a coffee house as another torrent of rain cut loose.

 

 ~*~

_To tap or not to tap?_ Bruce weighed the question as he came up behind his oblivious quarry, silent as fog. Go for it, he decided, and suited action to thought, smacking one broad shoulder even as he said, “I’ve had you under observation for fifteen minutes.” The results were gratifying.

 

Startled, Clark Kent jumped, almost knocked over his glass of iced coffee--only amazing reflexes prevented the contents soaking both laptop and notebooks--and audibly said, “Fuck it.” Audibly enough to be overheard by the middle-aged couple at the next table whose prim expressions tried to convey they never said it or did it.

 

Pleased with the outcome, Bruce pulled out a chair and sat down, and helped himself to one of the blueberry scones he’d been coveting. Why didn’t Alfred make scones anymore?

 

Clark Kent shot him a sharp look over the rims of his glasses and looked like more choice comments were on the tip of his tongue. He restrained himself to a wordless grumble, however, as he settled back in his chair. “Make yourself at home why don’t you.”

 

“I sense a degree of insincerity, Mr. Kent.” Bruce nodded his thanks as his coffee arrived.

 

“Imagine that.”

 

It was awhile since anyone had glared daggers at him, Bruce reflected. Not the reaction he would have predicted--interesting, though. “The usual thing would be to ask why was I observing you.”

 

“I imagine you’re getting to that.”

 

“Hhn.” Bruce tried one of the apple slices next, watched as a mobile eyebrow climbed high on Clark Kent’s noble brow. “You were pestering Arnold Wesker. Why?”

 

The eyebrow descended but remained cocked. “Did he say I was pestering him?”

 

“He said the two of you had a wonderful chat.” Which was why Bruce was here now, instead of suited up and waiting when Kent took the night ferry back to Metropolis later tonight. “Why did you want to talk to him?”

 

“That isn’t actually any of your business.”

 

“Sure about that?”

 

There went the eyebrow again as Kent shot a question back. “What does that mean?”

 

Bruce rested his hand on the table, fingers stretched to within snagging range of one of those notebooks. “You didn’t know your paper was up for sale?”

 

“I’ve heard rum--” Kent stopped, stared across the table at him as the pieces tumbled into place. He didn’t look dismayed or appalled. Dubious and provoked, on the other hand… “Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

 

Bruce waggled his eyebrows and extended no mercy. “You’re looking at your new boss, Mr. Kent.” Granted there were a few pesky details to deal with yet, some dotted lines to sign, but those were technicalities.

As though he were thinking _fuck my life_ , Kent shook his head and looked away for just a moment. A moment was all Bruce needed. He seized it, and seized the notebook, and was skimming the pages when Kent looked back around. There may have been a flicker of homicide in his eyes.

 

“You have no right to that. I don’t care what you own.”

 

Tempting to pop back with something like his town, his rules. Too tempting. Too easy. Reluctant as he was to admit it, Kent had given him some things to chew on in their first meeting. So Kent wouldn’t get any ideas, though, Bruce replied with a bored shrug. “Fine. Happy now?” He handed the notebook back. He had gathered sufficient information to go on anyway.

 

“Like a pig in clover,” was the grumbled reply as Kent gathered up everything, laptop included, and stowed it away in a brown leather messenger bag.

 

Bruce approved of the bag. It was a surprise, given most of Kent’ wardrobe probably came from the feed store in Smallville.

 

He’d clean up well, Bruce thought as he considered the broad shoulders, the chiseled jaw. Lose the jeans and the plaid, get him in a suit cut to fit him, that made the most of that perfect V-shape, and the result could be impressive. If he absolutely insisted on keeping some plaid, maybe a compromise could be found in the matter of socks, or even a pocket square.

 

And why was he even thinking about that? What did he care if Clark Kent looked like he belonged on the cover of __GQ__ , or like a hobo who’d wandered in off the street? It wasn’t as though they were ever going to see each other after today.

 

That’s why he was buying the __Daily Planet__ , so he’d never have a reason to see Clark again? a voice whispered through his mind. As always it sounded uncannily like Alfred. Better that that having to admit that thought had scurried through his mind, just for an instant.

There were legitimate reasons for wanting to seek out Clark Kent. Bruce didn’t care if Alfred believed them. He couldn’t do anything if Alfred had some crazy bee buzzing around in his bonnet, as indicated by that ridiculous conversation the other night when the deal to buy the paper had come up

 

“Ah, very good,” Alfred had said. “Shall I look forward to a winter wedding, then, or will you wait until spring?”

 

Busy reading a piece Clark Kent had written about a vandalized community garden in Suicide Slum, it had taken Bruce a moment to register Alfred’s words. “What?”

 

Alfred indicated the open file on the computer, jammed with Clark Kent. Everything Bruce had managed to compile about the farmboy reporter from Kansas. It wasn’t much. It raised far more questions than it answered and Bruce had reached the conclusion the only way to get at those answers was a boots on the ground investigation. Thus, considering ways to renew his acquaintance with Kent and how to turn that into a trip to Smallville.

 

Bruce shook his head and grumbled, at himself as much as Alfred. “What about the grandchildren you’re always nagging about?”

 

“Oh, pish-tosh, sir. They can do marvelous things that way nowadays. A bit of him, a bit of you, a surrogate to carry the child…” Alfred concluded with an elegant shrug to convey it would be a veritable piece of cake.

 

“Got it all worked out, huh? And I don’t think that’s how it works.” Interesting how Kent didn’t outright call the vandals who had torn up the garden brainless thugs, and yet did convey that while it had been a thoughtless act of destruction, in the end it only strengthened the resolve of others to not only repair the damage but expand the garden. Bruce jotted down the number of the community organization overseeing the project.

 

“Somebody has to think about the future.”

 

“Hhn. Clark Kent is a means to an end, nothing more. I’d sooner marry Poison Ivy.”

 

“Well, the flower arrangements would be spectacular…”

 

It had been a ridiculous conversation. He wasn’t obsessed with Clark Kent, let alone smitten by him. The reporter had a way with words, that was all. A way with words, some intriguing insights and insights, and a way of planting an idea like a burr in a saddle so that Bruce had caught himself questioning his methods lately and thinking about how far he may have strayed from the original course.

 

Aware that reporter had an inquiring gaze trained on him right now, Bruce scrambled to pick up the threads of the conversation. “Pigs in clover? Fond memories of being down on the farm?”

 

Blue eyes sharpened with another flare of suspicion. “What do you know about the farm?”

 

Bruce replied with another shrug, helped himself to a wedge of Colby-Jack. “I’m sorry,” he said without a trace of sincerity, “is it a secret you grew up on a farm in Kansas?”

 

“Apparently not. Would you like to order something?”

 

Bruce smirked. “I’m good.” He smiled some more as he watched Clark tug the platter closer and sprinkle salt and pepper over the hard boiled eggs as if that would protect them from Bruce.

 

“Guess I made an impression then,” Clark said with a mysterious little Mona Lisa smile that Bruce found annoying.

 

“Don’t let it go to your head. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

 

The eyebrow quirked upwards again. “Oh? So we’re dealing with each other now? When did that happen?”

 

Okay, he’d walked into that one. “You’re a potential employee.”

 

“And you take a personal interest in all your employees? Like Arnold Wesker?”

 

“No, he’s an exception.” Eyes narrowed as he considered the comments Clark had written in his notebook, Bruce said, “And if you think he has any connection to these Lonelyhearts murders you are way off base.”

 

Clark polished off an egg, reached for the other wedge of cheese. “He was a dangerous criminal, one of the worst according to Commissioner Gordon.”

 

“Was being the operative word.” When had he spoken with Jim? All Bruce had spotted in the notebook were some notes about a meeting with Harvey Bullock.

 

“So he’s cured?”

 

“He’s…better.” Bruce shrugged, nothing in the gesture now but a sense of uncertainty. “I’d like to see him stay that way.”

 

Clark spread his hands to indicate he had no argument with that. “For what it’s worth, I don’t have any plans to write about him. Commissioner Gordon thought I should talk with him, though. He said maybe that would help me understand the Bat vigilante.”

 

Well, hadn’t Jim been a busy little meddler today. Bruce grumbled to himself, plucked a couple of grapes from the bunch to cover it. “Did it?” Not that he cared or anything.

 

“Maybe. Little bit. There’s more going on with him than I anticipated anyway.”

 

“That tends to be true with most people. Someone might look at you, for instance, and think you must have been captain of your high school football team, homecoming king, all that.”

 

Blue eyes clouded, grew distant. “I wasn’t any of those things.”

 

“I know. I wonder why.”  

 

That sense of a barrier going up between them, like Clark had put up his shields, grew more intense. “I wonder if that’s any of your business, Mr. Wayne.” The tone of voice was mild enough but there was tinge, a suggestion of danger all the same. That only made things more intriguing.

 

Casual, as if it was no never mind to him, Bruce said, “Probably not. Still, a person wonders when things don’t quite add up.”

 

“By all means, feel free wonder.”

 

And if that wasn't laden with hidden meanings Bruce would eat his hat. “You don’t know anyone named Edward Nygma, do you?”

 

Clark frowned, thrown a bit by that response, and shook his head after a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

 

“Better know as the Riddler in these parts.”

 

“Ah.” A spark of recognition lit the blue eyes and seemed to signal the shields were coming down. “You think I’m talking in riddles?”

 

Emphasis on the pronouns was not lost on Bruce. “Is ping-pong a better analogy?”

 

“Not really.”

 

Bruce sat back, forced to concede he had gotten as much out of this meeting as he was going to. Interrogations went so much better when he could dangle the subject off the side of a building. “You’re headed back to Metropolis?”

 

“Eventually.”

 

Bruce didn’t like the vagueness of that answer. “Go home. Don’t be here after dark.”

 

The eyebrow shot up once more. “Is that an order?”

 

“A warning. Gotham’s no place for a farmboy after dark.”

 

“I haven’t been a farmboy, as you put it, in a really long time, Mr. Wayne. I can take care of myself.”

 

“Everybody thinks that.” Bruce watched Alfred come in and head this way. “Everyone’s wrong.”

 

“Are we ready to go, sir?” Alfred gave Clark a far too interested once over. “You must be Mr. Kent,” he said and held out his hand. “Alfred Pennyworth.”

 

On his feet, trying to puzzle things out, Clark shook the hand. “Pleased to meet you. Have we met?”

 

“I don’t believe so, no. I’ve heard much about you, however.”

 

Clark looked like he couldn’t decide which part of that to respond to. He shot Bruce a questioning look, shook his head as though something made no sense, and smiled at Alfred. Bruce had a weird moment where he coveted that smile and resented that it was bestowed on Alfred. “I’m sorry. It’s your voice, Mr. Pennyworth. I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

 

Alfred glanced at Bruce. In no better possession of a clue, Bruce shook his head. “It’s probably the British accent.”

 

“Maybe.” Clark didn’t look or sound convinced.

 

“Well, I have to be on my way,” Bruce said. “It’s been…”

 

“Odd?” Clark suggested.

 

“Hhn. I meant what I said, Gotham’s no place for you after dark.”

 

“And I meant what I said: I’m not afraid of Gotham.”

 

“You should be.” Bruce growled to himself. “At least stay the fuck away from Crime Alley,” he ordered and turned to leave.

 

Clark made a frustrated sound, like he wanted to fire off a snappy comeback but couldn’t come up with anything. “You’re a strange man, Mr. Wayne.”

 

“Oh,” Alfred said, his own expression enigmatic, “you have no idea.”

 

 Bruce leveled dark looks at them both and headed for the door.

~*~

 

“Big fat help you are,” Bruce grumbled out on the sidewalk.

 

“I’m sorry, was I meant to be coming to your rescue?” Alfred said as they paused on the sidewalk.

 

“Hhn.” Bruce stared through the window, watched Clark take out his laptop and notebooks again.

 

“Mr. Kent seems an agreeable person.”

 

“Mr. Kent _seems_  a lot of things.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

Bruce shook his head, turned away from the window as Clark looked up and glowered back at him. “How’d he recognize your voice?” he asked as he walked on, dodging puddles of rain.

 

“The accent, as you said.”

 

“I don’t think so. I think…” He shook his head again, frustrated as the answer eluded him. He had a feeling if he could pit it down, he would understand everything.

 

“He’s going to Crime Alley tonight, isn’t he?”

 

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”

 

“Goddamnit…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Rendezvous in Crime Alley...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, the showdown is here!

“Clark Kent. What’s his story?” the voice growled out of the darkness.

 

Jim Gordon didn’t jump. He took some pride in that after all these years. His ticker might have skipped a beat, though. “I ever keel over from a heart attack, it’s on you.”

 

“I’ll send a wreath.”

 

Jim snorted, watched one patch of shadow detach from the rest and resolve into Batman. “Figured you’d hear about it.”

 

He clicked off the light, moved closer to the edge to look out over the city. Times like this, the city having a quiet moment and all lit up like a Christmas tree, he could almost believe they were making progress. Even as he thought that, a siren screamed off in the distance, and his lips thinned with a rueful smile.

 

“So--Kent?”

 

“So, Kent.” Jim hunched his shoulders against the bite in the air. The rain had cleared off, barely a cloud in the moonless night now. The mercury was dropping fast enough to make him think an early blast of winter was coming. It always felt like winter was coming in Gotham. It’d be mighty nice to see that change. “He’s a reporter, over from Metropolis.”

 

That got a rumble of annoyance in reply. “Tell me what I don’t know.”

 

“You know, if I didn’t know for a fact you weren’t raised by wolves--”

 

“Jim.” Quieter now, almost polite.

“He looked up Harvey, wanted to compare notes on some murders in Metropolis. Thinks their perp and our Lonely Hearts psycho are one and the same.”

 

Batman drew closer, took his own long gander at the city. “Could he be onto something?”

 

“Harvey doesn’t think so. I called Chief Henderson and she assures me her detectives are closing in on a person of interest and don’t need any help from Gotham.” Jim shrugged, warmed his hands in his coat pockets. “No reason not to believe her.”

 

“Except for Clark.”

 

Well, now, wasn’t that interesting? “You know him?”

 

A long silence ensued, long enough for Jim to figure he wouldn’t get an answer. So it surprised him when his old friend admitted, “We’ve met.” Neutral, giving nothing away, and he hurried on before Jim could pursue anything. “Is he a glory hound, out to make a name for himself with this story?”

 

So they didn’t know each other that well yet. Also interesting. “I didn’t get that impression. All I got was sincerity.”

 

“And a little naive?”

 

“Maybe. Maybe that’s what good guys look like. Been a long time since we saw one around here.” Jim heard that hit home in the low grumble, sensed it in the way Batman shifted around like his suit--or his conscience?--was chafing him.

 

“Why did you send him to Arnold Wesker?”

 

“Figured it would give him something to think about. He’s not exactly your number one fan.”

 

Batman snorted. “You should have cleared it with me.”

 

“Yeah, cry me a river.” Jim didn’t care if his response made sense or not. A subtle shift in the atmosphere told him Batman had taken off anyway.

 

He looked around to confirm it, nodded to himself. He was glad the question of his motivation hadn’t been pursued any further. Jim couldn’t really say what had prompted him to send Kent on that errand. What did matter what one more reporter thought or wrote about Batman?

 

Still, it had felt right. Still did. Christ knew what would come of it. Kent was way too old to be recruited as a Robin. Not to mention he’d look ridiculous in the outfit.

 

Maybe he could be a friend?

 

Jim sighed, watched his city, wondered how it would feel if these little flutters of hope really took off and turned into something.

 

Well, he hoped they were flutters and not angina.

~*~

Some paranormal experts held that ghosts were residual energy soaked up by the surroundings in the wake of violent, traumatic events. As Clark explored the byways of Crime Alley he had to admit they might be onto something.

 

Ghosts could walk here. Could step out of the shadows, the fog that crept through the streets, and play out their final moments over and over. For an instant as he stood there, he would have sworn he heard a footstep crunch through broken glass and gravel, smelled the acrid stench of gunpowder as shots shattered the night. With a blink, a jerk of his head, Clark could banish the sensations, put it down to an overactive imagination. How had Bruce learned to cope?

 

He walked on and found the movie theater easily enough. Derelict, dilapidated, doors boarded up and padlocked. He prowled around, not really sure what he was looking for. There weren’t any answers here, not after all this time.

 

Exploring down here hadn’t been part of his plans. If Bruce hadn’t made such a fuss he would be in his hotel room writing up his notes and making plans for tomorrow. Since Gotham P.D. wouldn’t let him in on the Lonely Hearts murders he was going to have to find another way to get at the evidence they hadn’t made public, and see how it matched up with the Metropolis murders. There was always a chance he had jumped to a wrong conclusion. Instead, because Bruce had forbidden him to come down here, here he was. Best not to delve too deeply into that, he suspected.

 

He sighed, scanned the street, tried to shake off the sense of gloom that had soaked into the bricks and mortar of this place. A fire escape rattled and he checked for the source, smiling as he spotted a dainty calico cat. She returned his regard, meowed once, then dismissed him with a flick of her tail and leaped to a window sill. She slipped inside and he heard her purr with contentment as she was greeted by name-- “Molly!”--and the sound of a lid being popped on a can of food.

 

Dark and boarded up they might be, but there was life in these buildings, their ramshackle skeletons providing sanctuary. A quick debate with his conscience and Clark tipped down his glasses for a peek inside. Candles and hurricane lamps provided illumination, and if the decor was a hodgepodge of thrift store and Dumpster finds, there were no signs of squalor. What did they do when the weather turned brutal with cold, though?

 

He walked on, already planning more story ideas to pitch to Perry.  Metropolis might shine brighter than Gotham but scratch the surface and there was plenty of poverty and homelessness to be found there. Perry would shoot it down, tell him no one cared about the plight of the poor, explain that compassion had fallen out of fashion. Clark would persist and wear him down. Perry might have donned the mantle of a cynic but it never looked like a comfortable fit. Scratch a cynic and you found a disappointed idealist who still wanted to believe. But it wouldn’t hurt to cross his fingers.

 

He turned down a narrow, cobblestone footpath, thoughts straying to what it meant that Bruce had bought the paper. Had that been a whim or did Bruce have ideas? Would he maintain the status quo or shake things up? Clark couldn’t even hazard a guess at this point. He couldn’t get a read on Bruce at all. It did occur to him that might be the idea.

 

But to what purpose? What had that whole interlude in the coffee house been about anyway? If he had to make a guess, Clark would have said that Bruce was trying to take his measure. Again, though, for what reason? There was no way Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, was intrigued by, let alone taken with Clark Kent, farmboy reporter.

On the other hand, there had been that odd exchange, among a whole conversation loaded with mystifying nuance:

_“Someone might look at you, for instance, and think you must have been captain of your high school football team, homecoming king, all that.”_

_“I wasn’t any of those things.”_

_“I know. I wonder why.”_

What on earth had that been about? There was a whiff of plausibility in Bruce’s claim of background checks being part of the routine in his acquisition of the paper. There was also a whiff of something else entirely.

A person could likely spend a lifetime figuring out what made Bruce Wayne tick. Was it nuts how that struck Clark as the exact opposite of a daunting challenge? There was a lot to be daunted by, he cherished no illusion about that. Worth it? He thought so, yes, moot point though it might be.

A whisper of sound, a barely there thud, caught his attention and he took stock of his surroundings once more. He had been aware of a gradual shift in the character of his surroundings as he left Crime Alley behind him. There was no clear line of demarcation; he had gathered ‘Crime Alley’ was more a concept than any sharply defined locale. There was still a sense of danger in the air, that was Gotham’s base note after all, but without the desperation that he’d sensed earlier.

Abandonment and desolation was the order of the day here. A memory of fire was scorched into the earth, the brick, the pavement; the skeletal trees, whose bare branches scratched against an old billboard in an empty lot.

Had the sound come from there? He couldn’t be sure. There was nothing there now in any case.

A bat _skreeked_  past, its wings flapping furiously, and he tracked its progress until it disappeared in the night. A smile tugged his lips. Not the bat he was looking for, but still, he was drawn across the street, where a rusty, wrought-iron fence topped with spikes ran along the sidewalk. The concrete here was cracked and broken, weeds poking through, leaves strewn everywhere.

He prowled along the fence, looking for a gate. He could leap over the fence in a single bound, of course--or he could make use of the grand old oak that pressed against it, branches extending out over the sidewalk.

He shifted hi messenger bag around and  hauled himself up into the tree, dropping to the ground inside the fence. With his head cocked, he listened to a heartbeat that had sped up somewhere there in the night. Interesting. He’d had a sense for some time that he was being observed, being shadowed, but had attributed that to the unseen residents of Crime Alley keeping an eye out for interlopers. Maybe not, though. Maybe this was something else entirely.

He took a long look around him, belatedly realizing this was a cemetery. Hidden among weeds and watched by implacable moss-covered angels, headstones tilted at eccentric angles. His foot bumped a marble head that had broken off and he stooped to examine it, glance at the grave it must once have adorned.

_Charity Perkins_

_She Was Righteous in the Lord, And Kind_

_1767 - 1811._

He liked that they had thought it worth recording her kindness for posterity. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he murmured before moving on.

The cemetery stood adjacent to an ancient church.  A lone streetlamp, so old it looked like it should flicker with gaslight, cast an eerie glow over it. The lure was irresistible. Still listening to that heartbeat in the night--calmer now-- and careful of the graves, Clark ducked inside.

A quick glance around the interior told him no church service had been held there in a long time. Pews had been ripped out. Windows broken, the glass left to litter the floor. Vines crept up the walls. Starlight shone down through a hole in the roof. Starlight and… No, it was gone now. If it had been there at all. A shadow, a flicker, glimpsed from the corner of his eye.

He shook his head, looked around at the debris that littered the floor, took in the crude graffiti scrawled across the walls. A pentagram burnt into the floor made him suspect unhallowed rites were sometimes practiced here. The only life that stirred  was of the rodent variety, however. Careful of a spiderweb, he went back outside and cast a thoughtful look at the freestanding belfry that loomed up against the night. Something fluttered there, where the bell should have been. He smiled; apparently  there really were bats in the belfry.

Again, though, not _the_  Bat. He had seen the signal earlier, Commissioner Gordon’s summons to the vigilante. There was no denying that, piercing the Gotham night, it did make for an impressive sight. Easy to imagine a chill going up your spine at sight of that. He’d felt it himself, and he was in no way engaged in anything nefarious.

Would the Bat see it that way? Could it be who was stalking him? That made more sense than the first name that had popped into his head: Bruce.

Although Bruce had been awfully adamant that he keep away from Crime Alley…

Clark shook his head, knew he needed to rein in his thoughts. Bruce wasn’t down here. And if it was the Bat, it looked like the idea was to observe from a distance. Like he’d told Lois, there was no reason for Batman to take any interest in him. He was just a tourist having a look around Gotham. Nothing there to catch the attention of the Bat vigilante.

Anyway, he had learned all he was going to on this visit. More than he had anticipated in some ways, and raising a fresh batch of questions in others. He had some idea of the lay of the land, though--and no one had stolen his lunch money. There was  disappointment that Gotham had no more interest in his theories about the Lonely Hearts Killer than did Metropolis, but that didn’t mean he would give up. If the Gotham Bat really was some kind of hotshot detective, maybe… But no, he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it crossed his mind. How could they ever work together? His view of the vigilante had been tweaked, true enough, but nothing he’d learned highlighted the idea that Batman and he would do anything but rub each other the wrong way.

Time to go, he decided, looking around to get his bearings. Storm clouds were moving in again and the fog had grown heavier while he explored the church, drifting across the ground and wreathing the graves and monuments. This place would be eerie enough in daylight. Quiet, lonely spots like this always were. Like this, with the fog and a cold, moonless night, every rustle of brush or branch heralded the approach of a shambling zombie. Every scrape or creak could only be a vampire as it crawled from its grave to stalk the night. And he really needed to stop watching _Supernatural_ reruns.

And not that he gave credence to superstition, but as he picked his way around the church, it did dawn on him he was going counterclockwise. Widdershins… Well, if ghosts or demons were going to appear, this would be the place.

Clark shook his head, bemused at the nonsense that wandered through his head sometimes. He started to pick his way back across the churchyard but his steps faltered as an uncanny sensation shivered through him. He pulled up his coat collar and hunched his shoulders against the feeling.

Someone was watching him. There was nothing abstract about it now. The air was so charged with it he expected to see sparks of electricity and catch a whiff of ozone.

Anticipation spiked through him. Goosebumps prickled his skin and his breath caught with the thrill of it. Something awesome was about to happen. The only thing missing was a drum roll.

Right on cue, thunder rumbled, lightning sizzled, and in that flash of illumination Clark saw him--the Batman, up on top of the belfry, cape streaming out behind him as a breeze caught it.

The figure vanished in a blink of the eye--and the smoke bomb that exploded in the stillness of the churchyard. Clark struck out at the smoke, tried to disperse it, tried to orient himself. By the time he thought about applying a quick burst of his breath to the problem, it was already too late.

Hands seized him, shoved him back against the cold stone of a mausoleum. Caught by surprise, and far too fascinated to resist, Clark let himself be manhandled, let himself be held there. He stared into angry dark eyes and listened to a deep, gravelly voice demand, “What are you doing here? You were warned to keep away!”

It was meant to be a display of intimidation, terrifying even. It probably worked most of the time. Clark would have scrambled to assume some appropriate persona in response if he’d had more warning. A mild-mannered reporter scared out of his socks, something in that line. Too late now. Nor did it help that for a second it felt like he’d wandered into a reboot of _Beauty and the Beast._

Trying hard not to think of that, he clamped down on a smile. He wasn’t quick enough about that, either, to judge by the suspicion that flared up and merged with the anger in those eyes.

The Bat released him and backed up a couple of steps. Appearing disconcerted and off his game, the Bat declared, “There’s nothing to smile about.” Clark detected an extra effort in growl effect this time.

“I understand that.” Clark gave his head a firm nod to acknowledge this was serious business, even as the corners of his mouth kept twitching.

Consternation chased the disconcerted look to the curb and the Bat backed up a couple more paces. Any further and he was going to fall over Charity Perkins. Clark sensed the other man, like an actor who had forgotten his lines, was scrambling to get back on track. If he used his x-ray vision would he see the wheels spinning frantically as the Bat realigned himself and got his bearings? It was tempting. For a lot of reasons. He couldn’t justify it, not in these circumstances. It would feel too much like cheating when he already had every advantage in his favor.

To his credit, the Bat pulled himself back together in record time. With his resolve gathered around himself like a cape, the Bat circled, aggravation twisting his mouth as Clark only tracked his movements.

“You know who I am?” the Bat asked.

“Pretty good idea, yeah.”

“You’re looking for me?”

“Not in particular,” Clark said and saw that strike home with a spark of surprise. So that’s what nonplussed looked like on the Batman.

“You’re down here _not_  looking for me?”

“Pretty sure we’ve established that.”

Still circling, looking for an advantage, the growl back full force, the other said, “Are you trying to make me punch you?”

Clark shrugged. “Would that make you feel better?”

An accelerated heartbeat was the only warning Clark had before the Bat sprang at him, slammed him back against a mausoleum. It was enough of a head’s up for him to go with it, to let himself be shoved around so any resultant cracks in the marble could be attributed to the other man’s not inconsiderable muscle power. He could feel the thrum of that power pressed against him, could almost taste it. _Wanted_ to taste it… This was so not the way he had expected this to go.

Pinned there with one hand pressed to his chest and the other clamped on his shoulder, the Bat right in his face, Clark reviewed his options. Zero effort would be required to extricate himself. As to consequences, who would the Bat tell--and who would believe him? He set that aside as his option of last resort, to be deployed only if the Bat proved hopelessly unreasonable. Hard to make that call just yet.

“Do you know what I could do to you, Kent?”

The rumble was right at Clark’s ear, a throaty whisper he felt right down to his toes. Not the usual response, he suspected. The Bat’s usual suspects probably didn’t catalog intimate details about him, either. This close, Clark could have sniffed him, for instance. He wanted to. The leather was obvious but what about those other scents, underlying the leather like base notes in a cologne? Something in them dinged his memory. So did the hazel eyes, that belligerent chin. And the mouth… But no, he couldn’t linger too long on that feature. Crazy, dangerous impulses bombarded him when he did.

His own mouth felt dry. He licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a lower, rougher, intimate register. “You have no idea what _I_ can do. Maybe you should think about that.”

Interest flickered in those cantankerous eyes. Head tilted, the Bat smirked. “Well, bring it on, farmboy.”

And just like that everything clicked. Clark knew--and he didn’t even need to peek under the cowl to confirm it. “Bruce?” _Bruce?_ Bruce…It made sense; everything made so much sense, and snapped together like a jigsaw puzzle finally solved. He was only flabbergasted it had taken this long to put it together.

If he was flabbergasted, the Bat--Bruce--appeared thunderstruck. He pushed Clark away and backed up again, heart hammering like he’d just raced Usain Bolt in the hundred meter sprint. In anyone else, Clark would have been concerned a panic attack was imminent. For a second he really thought that was a possibility. He reached out and started to ask, “Are you--”

His hand was knocked away. Eyes narrowed, dark with suspicion, disbelief, Bruce demanded, “How could you possibly know--”

“Your eyes. Your chin.” Clark’s own gaze drifted over each other feature. “Your lips.” Heat flooded him and he gave himself a shake to pull himself together. “Commissioner Gordon might have mentioned my name but, Bruce,” his eyes locked on the other man’s, saw awareness dawning there, “no one else has ever called me ‘farmboy.’”

“Shit.” The Bat-- _Bruce_ \--moved off again, pacing, as if he couldn’t process all of this standing still. Clark understood that. World-changing moments like this took some getting used to. The full impact hadn’t hit _him_  yet. It probably wouldn’t for awhile yet.

Bruce studied him so intently Clark could practically see the thoughts racing through his agile mind; scenarios considered, rejected, spun in new directions. What would he do if he felt threatened? What action would Clark have to take in response? He really didn’t want to have to find out.

“So,” Bruce spoke up again, manner bizarrely conversational, “tomorrow’s _Daily Planet_ headline. What’s it going to be?”

So that’s what he’d settled on as the most likely eventuality. Clark couldn’t say he was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. “I don’t know. Perry White’s probably still deciding.”

“One call and his decision’s made.”

“Your background check on me didn’t go far if you think I’d do that.”

“It would make your career.”

“My career’s fine.”

Disbelief showed in Bruce’s eyes, disbelief and contempt for Clark’s naivete. There was something else, too, just a spark, just an ember, but enough to give Clark hope.

“Anyway,” he pushed on, “Perry would want sources and proof before he’d ever go to press with this.”

“A hotshot investigative reporter could dig that up.” Defiance was still there, the chin as aggressive as ever, but Bruce’s attitude was tempered with curiosity now. Clark had piqued his interest. That was something; he had a foot in the door.

“Maybe,” Clark allowed, and decided to play his ace and see if the door opened all the way. “Maybe there’s a better story to pursue.”

And there went the head tilt again, albeit with a glint of miffed umbrage in his eyes. “Better?”

Clark cocked his head in turn.

“Hhn.” Bruce moved closer, still dubious, but listening. “Your murders? No one else sees a connection. What makes you sharper than the police?”

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I have resources they don’t.”

“Snitches?”

“Not exactly.” Clark sighed, pushed at his glasses, realized he had to give him something in return. “The police need warrants, I don’t.”

“Why, Mr. Kent,” and there went the smirk; Clark should have been able to identify him by that alone, “what situational ethics you have.”

He would see it that way. Clark wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was wrong. “Don’t tell me that’s a problem for you.”

“Not especially.” Bruce blew out a breath, lips thinned out in a grimace. “So that’s what you want? In exchange for you keeping the lid on this,” he gestured to indicate the Bat suit, “I grease the wheels so you can pursue your theories about the murders?”

“Actually, no.” And now Clark invaded _his_  personal space, watched suspicion chase intrigue in his eyes. “I thought we could investigate together.”

“You are not going to tag along with me.”

“Didn’t plan to. I thought you could tag along with me--just not as the Bat.”

Bruce stared back at him, clearly questioning his intelligence and overall mental state. “What, like the Hardy Boys?” he scoffed.

“I like the Hardy Boys.”

“Why I am I not surprised?” Bruce grumbled. He moved off again, went back to pacing. Clark was reminded of a wolf keeping just shy of the warm, welcoming campfire; tempted to come closer but with a lifetime’s mistrust to shake off first. Wishful thinking? Maybe. Sometimes a wish, a hope, was all you had.

And Clark would bet Bruce had liked the Hardy Boys once. It used to be about justice, that’s what Commissioner Gordon had told him. It used to be about so much more than fear and retribution. Commissioner Gordon still believed in that Batman. Clark found he wanted to. Did Bruce?

“What have you got in mind? How are you explaining Bruce Wayne playing amateur sleuth?”

So he wasn’t dismissing the whole idea out of hand. If he was weighing the merits of the plan that meant his interest was engaged. Now all Clark had to do was sell an idea he had only just thought of. Well, according to Lois, half a reporter’s job was improvising on the spot. He hoped he could do her proud.

“There’s the answer,” he said. “You’ve always wanted to be an amateur sleuth like Lord Peter Wimsey. It goes with your dilettante lifestyle.” He’d had him for a split second there. Clark felt sure of that. Where had he lost him?

“Dilettante lifestyle?”

Yes, of course, poor word choice, Clark realized. He shrugged, indicating it was no cause for drama. “Criminologist without credentials?”

The glower didn’t abate much. “As the new owner of the _Daily Planet_  I can butt in wherever I want and involve myself in my reporters’ activities.”

“That works too. So that’s a yes?”

“That’s an I’ll get back to you.”

Clark had expected that.

Bruce wasn’t done. “You know,” his tone of voice was still relaxed, almost chatty, as if they were talking over tea and watercress sandwiches in the garden instead of a fog-shrouded churchyard, with one of them dressed as a giant bat, “something else I could do as the new owner is fire you, see that you never work again.”

He was being deliberately provoked; prodded with a sharp stick to see what he’d do. Clark understood that. That didn’t prevent a brief fantasy of drop kicking him halfway across Gotham from flashing through his mind. It did help to dispel the urge as quickly as it appeared. “You could. You have all the power.”

Taking his measure again, Bruce pulled a face. “I’m not so sure about that.” He growled to himself, shook his head. “Get out of here. Go back to Metropolis before you get yourself killed.”

Clark heaved a frustrated sigh. He was getting really tired of this particular broken record. “You know, I get it has a deeply personal significance to you, but Crime Alley’s pretty tame really.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” Bruce said, deceptively pleasant as he came close again. “Did you notice ‘Three-Finger’ Louie and his boys Earl and Otis lurking around the corner of the old Rexall’s? How about Annie ‘The Garrote’ Dumire, over behind Morton’s Shoe Repair shop?”

“’Three-Finger’ Louie?”

“Killer Croc bit off his right thumb and index finger. He can still kill the hell out of you. You know why none of them tried?”

He had a good idea. That would explain some thuds and bangs he had attributed to more mundane sources like stray cats. “You were following me.”

Bruce cocked his head again, expression clear as day: _Got it in one _.__

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“I don’t want your thanks, Kent. I want you out of here.”

“Look--” Clark bit off his protest at the combative look fired back at him, like the other man was still spoiling for a fight.

“Get this through your head, Kent.” He grabbed Clark like he wanted to shake him. He settled for shoving him back against the wall. All trace of banal nonchalance was gone and danger was back like the strike of a match. One hand pressed against Clark’s chest, voice rough with emotion, he said, “I don’t want to think about where you are or if you’re in danger. I want you out of Gotham before something happens and I’m not there.”

“I--” What could he say to convince Bruce there was no cause for his concern? Confession hovered on his lips. There would be symmetry, to reveal his secret, to have no secrets between them. Would there ever be a better time?

Clark would never know the result of his mental coin flip.

Bruce shoved him again, hard enough he lost his balance this time and tumbled down among the weeds and headstones. By the time he scrambled back to his feet, Bruce was gone.

He blew out  a frustrated breath, thoughts racing with a thousand different ways he could have handled things. All to the same result? He shook his head, stooped to retrieve his messenger bag, surprised Bruce hadn’t taken it. That would have given him access to everything Clark had on the murders, eliminating any reason for them to work together.

If it was anyone else, Clark would have dismissed that detail as insignificant. He would have told himself Bruce just didn’t think of it. _If_ it was anyone else.

He scanned the night, listened for a whisper of the other man. There was nothing, though, not a trace. Nothing more to do here, then, he decided and made his way out of the churchyard. There was the sound of traffic a couple of blocks away, a gleam of streetlights holding back the darkness.  He headed towards them.

 

~*~*~*~

**“Epilogue”**

Cowl pushed back, Bruce studied the data he’d pulled up on Knyazev. It wasn’t much, but it was the first real lead he’d turned up in this chase after the White Portuguese. There was still no solid idea on what that was, exactly.  Maybe it would turn out to be a wild goose chase, as Alfred suggested. His gut told him different. If Lex Luthor was involved, it was something real, and possessed of deadly potential.

He pulled up Lex Luthor’s file, checked the recent updates on LexCorp activities in the Indian Ocean. That was where Superman had annihilated that Kryptonian machine, the world engine. No way in hell that was a coincidence. What was Lex looking for? More important, why hadn’t he beaten Lex to the punch and gotten there first?

He leaned back in the chair, massaged his face, tired right down to his bones. That was part of it. That, and juggling too many other balls. This had never been easy, but more and more lately he found his thoughts drifting to times when the burden hadn’t been so heavy, when it wasn’t just him and Alfred against the world. His gaze cut to the display case, Jay’s costume preserved there.

“You should get some sleep,” Alfred said, drifting in and placing a delicate Haviland cup and saucer before him, fragrant with the scent of chamomile. “You’re due in Paris tomorrow.”

Paris… He scrubbed his face again, tempted by the tea. Paris, and a mystery woman to track down at the Louvre. Something told him he would need to be exceptionally sharp and on his game for her. “I’ll sleep on the plane.”

Alfred scoffed at that. Drawn to another file, he pulled up the Lonely Hearts case, studied the information. “And your Mr. Kent?”

“He’s not my--” Bruce caught himself, grumbled. “You know what? Never mind.” He wasn’t up for another round of Alfred’s nonsense about the reporter. Bad enough his own thoughts wandered Mr. Kent’s way at the most inopportune moments. It had been a good decision to send Lucius over to Metropolis to close the _Daily Planet_ deal. He needed to steer clear of Mr. Kent for the foreseeable future.

To banish thoughts of Clark Kent, he leaned forward and found another file, his redesign of the cowl. “What do you think?”

Alfred adjusted his glasses and examined the rough sketch with its chin guard and white, opaque lenses over the eyeholes. “Why not go the whole hockey mask route? I’m sure you can work the ears in somehow.”

Bruce side-eyed him suspiciously. “I can’t tell when you’re being snarky anymore.”

“Part of my charm,” Alfred returned smoothly. “Will you join forces with him?” he continued in a credible imitation of a dog with a bone.

Bruce wasted a grumpy look at him. He reached for the cup of tea and took a sip. “It’s a bad idea.” Kent was a civilian. A decent investigative reporter perhaps, but chasing down corruption and tracking down a dangerous killer were two vastly different things. “He’ll get in my way. Something could happen to him.” Against his will, he looked at the display case again.

“He’ll pursue it regardless of you. He’ll face the killer by himself. He has that look about him,” Alfred said, studying a photo of Kent. “Stalwart. Dedicated. It’s not about the story,” he went on, thoughtful. “His job is a means to an end.”

Bruce gave Alfred a long look. “What end?”

“A better world?” Alfred suggested, faltering in his certainty now. He shook his head then, as if to cast off some idea too fanciful to be voiced. Bruce could sympathize. He felt something like that every time he considered Clark Kent.

“I’ll decide when I get back from Paris. Another day or two won’t matter.” Even as he spoke, different words echoed in his mind: _One night always matters _.__

He could see that awareness in Alfred’s eyes. They both knew all too well that _seconds_  could make all the difference, nevermind a day.

“Goddammit.” He blew out a deep sigh, threw up his hands. “Fine. Cancel Paris.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred said, practically twinkling.

~*~

Just back from helping to rescue trapped coal miners in Turkey, all Clark wanted right that minute was a long, hot shower. So naturally he had no sooner stepped into the tub and ducked his head under the shower head than someone pounded on his apartment door.

The water felt good. He could ignore the knocks. It was probably Mrs. Fisher from down the hall, wondering if he’d seen her cat Bitsy. He knew exactly where the cat was: buried in a sunny spot out in the postage stamp of a backyard. “Poor thing passed away ten years ago. Must’ve been twenty or more,” Mr. Fisher had confided in him one day. “My Mitzi, though, she forgets.”

He sighed, braced his arms against the tiles and shook his head, scattering water droplets. He got out, pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, scrubbing at his head with a towel as he went to answer the door.

Clark hesitated, though, used his x-ray vision to check it wasn’t Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses. It wasn’t.

Dorothy Parker was reputed to have said, “What fresh hell is this?” whenever she opened her door. Clark found himself in sympathy with her as he considered his early morning visitor.

Or was this more of a lady, or the tiger situation?

Contemplating that, Clark opened the door and Bruce Wayne breezed on inside.

 

 

****==========================** **

****

_Night and Day_  
_You are the one_  
_Only you beneath the moon_  
_Or under the sun_  
_Whether near to me or far_  
_No matter, ~~darling~~ where you are_  
_I think of you_  
_Night and Day…_

_\--Cole Porter_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks to [architeuthis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/architeuthis/pseuds/architeuthis)\-- oneiroteuthis on tumblr--for doing a fabulous beta job on this chapter. I was lost and floundering without a clue and never would have made of their timely assistance. If any mistakes yet linger, they are down to me entirely. 
> 
> Anyway... So for a long time I've had a hankering for a couple of things. One of those has been for Clark and Bruce to team up and work a case, but with Bruce operating in the manner of a classic amateur sleuth like Lord Peter Wimsey. Many story ideas with that in mind have been sketched out along the way. So this, or rather the next story in the series, will be my chance to finally try that out. 
> 
> I have also wanted to do a fic where the identity!porn trope gets turned around bit and for once Clark is the one who knows everything while Bruce remains in the dark. So--ta da.
> 
> The next story will pick up exactly where this one leaves off, and with any luck the first chapter will be along soon. It's been roughed out for ages, only waiting for me to get this chapter done.
> 
> As always, feedback would be lovely. You can always find me at [riley1cannon](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/riley1cannon), too, where I would welcome your Asks. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hoped you enjoyd this.

**Author's Note:**

> So while adding fandoms up top there I _didn't_ choose the Nolanverse, but that didn't keep me from borrowing a couple of things all the same.
> 
> Re: James "Jimmy" Olsen. I am aware a character claiming to be him appears in BvS:DoJ. I do not, however, accept that that individual really was Jimmy. My personal headcanon is that that dude stole Jimmy's identity and made use of it for reasons unknown, and that Jimmy was left stranded in dire circumstances from which he extricated himself and made his way back to the States, and Metropolis, where he belongs. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. 
> 
> Anyway... Will our heroes solve the murders in the next installment? Will matters ever move beyond simmering UST? Will... Um, yes, tune in next time and see. The author doesn't have a clue at present. (No smart remarks, please.)
> 
> Feedback and kudos welcome. I will reply...eventually.


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